


Resonant Frequency

by arbitraryspace



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, Other, Robot Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-22
Updated: 2010-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:50:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arbitraryspace/pseuds/arbitraryspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Androids do it with analogous circuits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonant Frequency

The Master should hate the price that's been asked of him. He should despise himself for paying it. It should fill him with a howling, inconsolable fury, to know that he has only gained unrestricted access to the Doctor's body at the cost of his own capacity to appreciate the pleasures of the flesh. He should break out of this damnable TARDIS and carve his rage into the curvature of the universe.

Yet this shell is not suited to such passions – it has no hearts to thunder, no blood to boil – and all the Master can manage to feel about the situation is a giddy sort of triumph. For once it is the Doctor who is splay-legged, needy, _fucked_ , while the Master pounds relentlessly onward, so controlled that he could easily be mistaken for casual. And it's possible that there's some justice in the cosmos after all.

"You're terrible," the Doctor groans, bucking erratically beneath him.

"I'm well aware," the Master says.

He pays no mind to the Doctor's feeble writhing, and carries on fucking him at his own measured pace. His rhythm is perfect down to the nanosecond. No deviations are permitted. He knows his Doctor better than anyone else, which is to say that even if the Doctor weren't a shuddering, red-faced wreck at the moment, the Master would still know that imposing any sort of routine on him was the absolute best way to drive him mad.

"Damn you, _let me finish_!" The Doctor whines, under the mistaken impression that he's in any position to be demanding. "Much more--"

"More?"

The Master runs his fingertips across the Doctor's chest, imparting a light shock to his nipples, while his hips roll up into a particularly pointed thrust. There's a wealth of new experiences to be found in sex without the biological drive to orgasm. The Master has discovered a great aesthetic appreciation for the way the Doctor's parted thighs quiver against his pelvic chassis, and scent of his sweat where it gathers in his hairline.

The Doctor goes limp – no longer pushing back, just taking it – and drapes one arm across his forehead like a swooning gothic heroine. The Master should, perhaps, be concerned that he finds the gesture more enchanting than ridiculous.

"Mm – too much?" The Master asks, still moving.

The Doctor's eyes flutter half-closed and hazy. He makes a poor attempt to hide them behind his bicep.   
"Much more of this pleasure," he murmurs to himself, "and I will surely perish."

Remembering a former body isn't the same as living in it. But the Master _can_ still remember, if only somewhat, and for a moment, he recalls the precise dimensions of his lust, and the overpowering weight of a centuries-old desire.

It occurs to the Master that he _could_ kill the Doctor right now. If he wanted to. The remote is on the nightstand. The Master could go harder and faster, as long as it took, until the Doctor was torn and mewling, bleeding out against the white cotton sheets.

Oh, he has been so patient. Oh, it has been _so_ long. There is no power in all of space-time so heady as holding the Doctor's life in his hands, and choosing to spare it.

"Ever the wordsmith." The Master smiles down at the Doctor. He rests a hand on the Doctor's side, and rubs idly at the indentation of his hipbone with the soft, synthetic pad of his thumb. "Well? Do go on."

The Doctor squirms, keens, curses. Digs his heels into the small of his Master's back.

"I can't see any reason why I should indulge your whims," the Doctor huffs. "D- don't – don't _stop_ \-- don't think I don't remember last Tuesday. You and Allison have a fine time making a mockery of my poetry."

"Ah, but this is a glorious opportunity to change my mind! Perhaps your talents have merely lain dormant, waiting to be invigorated by the right muse." The Master presses a bite into the side of the Doctor's collarbone. "Let me feel it too, Doctor," he mouths into the Doctor's skin. "The only way I can."

"Oh--"

" _Doc_ -tor."

"-- _yes_ , Master."

"Yes, what?"

"I could die," the Doctor says, coyly, and there's always a chance that this has all been calculated for the Master's benefit, but the Master decides that he doesn't much care. "Any time you-- oh, fuck."

Faster still, now, and the Master is holding his knees up and open, and if the Doctor has any objections at being so thoroughly used, he does not care to show them. He babbles out curses and terrible poetry and pleas for his own death and when the Master brushes their foreheads together there's nothing in the Doctor's surface thoughts but _MasterMasterMaster_ , which feels a bit like falling into a black hole, or regaining his breath after a marathon run, or what he imagines the Doctor must feel, as he spurts semen all over the Master's belly.

When they disentangle themselves, the Doctor is flushed and boneless, while the Master looks as though he could take on a brace of Cybermen, were he so inclined. He wills his body's erection down now that it's no longer needed.

"That took _half an hour_ , so don't you start in about organic stamina again," the Doctor warns him.

"I wouldn't dream of it," the Master lies.

The Doctor reaches across the Master to switch off their bedside lamp. Too late, the Master realizes that his isomorphic remote is on the same end-table, and that the Doctor has ulterior motives for moving to turn the lights out.

The Doctor flicks the tiny white dial that controls the Master's internal power source and sets him to ten-precent processing efficiency, turning him into a sated, groggy lump, cuddled up against the Doctor's side.

"Good," the Doctor says, pulling the Master onto his chest in place of the duvet.

After that they don't say much of anything for quite a while.


End file.
